The Reasons She Hates the Freak
by Ragua
Summary: Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan does not like Sherlock Holmes. Her reasons might be petty. But they are hers.
1. Sally and the Terrier

Sally and the Terrier

Hate might be too strong a word. It conjured up images of crimes and atrocities committed against others simply for the way they were born; feelings and actions that stemmed from things like racism, misogyny, bigotry, and the like. Sally Donovan's feelings toward the Freak definitely stemmed from firsthand experience, not from any preconceived notions. If Sally ever tried to articulate her feelings toward Sherlock Holmes, she might use the word "resentment."

As a Black woman in a career still dominated by White men, Sally had an outsider's resentment of privilege attained without sacrifice. She had climbed the Met ladder through hard work, long hours, and determination, coping along the way with the innuendoes, the mansplaining, the "get-me-coffees," not to mention the not-as-occasional-as they-should-have-been boob or arse grab. Those were just things a woman trying to establish a place for herself in a hierarchy had to deal with, and Sally had dealt.

So when some toff swanned into a crime scene, belittled the team, solved the case and then disappeared—all without any of the blood, sweat, toil, and tears that were par for the course—then yes, that pissed her off.

But Sally could have held her resentment in check if the Freak had limited his scorn to herself and the other lads in the squad. Sure, she would have hurled a few of his insults back in his face, but that would be expected. But the Freak's disrespect didn't stop with the team. He also disrespected their DI, and that was something Sally would _never_ make peace with.

It hadn't taken newly-minted Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan long to realize that her assignment to Lestrade's team had been the biggest stroke of luck in her career. Her early fears were soon relieved: Lestrade was completely oblivious to her color and gender. If anything, he seemed to view himself as some kind team Dad. Even more important, Lestrade was everything a good copper should be—thorough, tough, fair, and above all, determined. He had high standards, and he led by example: always the first one in the office and the last to leave; never willing to delegate an unpleasant task, like informing next-of-kin, to an underling; and tenacious as a terrier in his unwillingness to give up on a case.

Sally sometimes imagined him as a wiry-haired little cairn, setting his teeth into the heel of a much larger animal—an elephant, maybe, or a lion—and worrying away at it, growling all the while. Sometimes he caught her at it and demanded to know what was so funny.

So it enraged her when the Freak slagged her boss. To his face. In front of their team. Usually over a dead body. And it enraged her when Lestrade quietly accepted the ill-treatment. In front of their team. _Because_ there was a dead body. Whatever it took to close the case, Greg Lestrade would do it. And if that meant making himself a target for some smug, self-satisfied bastard, then that's what was going to happen.

That's why he was a such a good copper.

And that's why Sally Donovan hated Sherlock Holmes.

For all the Freak's supposed genius, he couldn't see the quality that was right in front of his face. Without Lestrade, there would be no opportunities for him to show off at a crime scene. Without the far less glamourous evidence-gathering and legwork, there would be no foundation on which to build the cases. Genius didn't bring cases to court, nor did it provide the Crown with the evidence to win them. And DI's who didn't provide evidence for winnable cases didn't have the leverage—or the stones—to bring in consulting detectives off-record.

Greg Lestrade would never stand up for himself, force the Freak to acknowledge what he had misprized for years. Bloody Hell, Lestrade was _fond_ of the man! He tried to hide it—didn't blokes always, when it was another bloke?—but Sally could see it, clear as day. Another kid in Lestrade's hodge-podge, non-biological family.

Sally guessed she couldn't begrudge the Freak's addition to the family, when she herself was a beneficiary of Lestrade's tendency to adopt without judgment. But she didn't consistently _wound_ the man who had done so much for her. Yes, Sherlock Holmes always brought down the elephant or lion or whatever, but he did so with complete disregard to the terrier already clinging to its heel. And sometimes the terrier got whacked or smacked or even fallen upon when the large beast was brought down. But the Freak didn't care about the terrier, as long as _he_ was seen to be the one bringing the beast down. And as long as the great beast _was_ brought down, the terrier, however damaged, would happily wag its tail.

No, the Waters case had shown her that Greg Lestrade would never take a step to get the appreciation he deserved from anyone, let alone Sherlock Holmes. And he certainly wouldn't hate the man. He just didn't have it in him.

But Sally could.


	2. Tea for Two

**Tea for Two**

**A/N: The next bunch of chapters don't follow any kind of proper timeline or chronology. They're just vignettes to show what Sally sees and hears on some of the cases that are "too boring" to merit the attention of a certain consulting detective; however, these boring cases reveal merit of another sort—the kind Sally Donovan values.**

Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan's boss looked nowhere near as ridiculous as a middle-aged man_ should_ look, sitting at a little girl's play tea table with his knees practically up to his ears. Though the tiny plastic cup was barely visible in his hand, he was the very picture of a proper guest, attentive to his hostess's conversation and appreciative of her offered refreshments. There was no end to the man's hidden talents. Sally hid a smile; if the scene downstairs had not been so grim, she might even have laughed. Unfortunately, there were two cooling corpses in the room beneath this one, and neither was a parent of the young lady currently taking tea with Scotland Yard.

According to Emma Kersey, Gerry Riordan (one of the corpses) was "Mummy's boyfriend," who shared the flat with them. According to the landlord, only Sheila Kersey's name was on the lease, and she was nowhere to be found. Which is how Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade came to be taking tea with young Miss Kersey.

"Would you care for a biscuit?" Emma asked quite formally, holding an empty plate toward the police inspector. The five-year-old was putting on what she evidently believed was a posh accent. Whatever else had taken place in this drug-ridden hole, thought Sally, _someone_ had been watching costume dramas. Which should have counted as child abuse, in her opinion, but that charge probably wouldn't hold up in court.

Lestrade surveyed the plate discerningly. "Chocolate digestives? Yes, please!" He selected an imaginary biscuit and nibbled at it far more fastidiously than Sally would have expected, given his usual eating habits. "Fanks." Strike that—he still managed to talk with his mouth full, despite the imaginary nature of the biscuit.

"It's very kind of you to have tea for us, particularly when we came so late. And unannounced," Lestrade told Emma. Sally watched in amused fascination as the girl blossomed under the attention of the grizzled man sitting opposite her.

"Don't mention it. We often keep late hours here," she replied. Fake posh accent and all, the girl still sounded far older than her five years. "I always try to have tea and biscuits, should visitors drop by."

Lestrade lowered his teacup and raised his brows. "Your mum lets you stay up late?" he asked in surprise. "That's brilliant! Mine was always after me to be in bed by nine!"

"Well," Emma temporized, suddenly looking _exactly_ like a five-year-old, and a naughty one, at that. "Mum _does_ put me to bed early, but she never checks up, after. Gerry wants her there for when his friends come over. I can usually stay up until they leave, as long as I'm quiet. Mum waits 'til they're gone to come back upstairs."

"Make a lot of racket, do they?" Lestrade gave the child a grin of a co-conspirator. "And once they're quiet down there, you know it's time to kip?" Emma returned the inspector's grin with interest, delighted to have found a sympathetic and knowing ear. Sally smothered a grin of her own.

For more than 20 minutes, Lestrade chatted with Emma over faux tea and chocolate digestives. Sally watched as her DI skillfully drew the child out, discovering far more about Gerry Riordan and his associates than she would have believed possible.

Little pitchers, big ears.

Emma's innocent chatter hinted at the sordid dealings below stairs from which her mother had so obviously tried to shield her. That Sheila had wanted her daughter to remain invisible to her boyfriend's cronies was patently obvious in the restrictions the child mentioned over tea. The implied reasons for these cautions made Sally's stomach clench.

Drugs dealers weren't known for their self-restraint, and it was obvious that Emma's mother had taken what limited steps were available to keep her child from their notice. Both Sally and Lestrade could read between the lines of the child's complaints about her mother's strict rules. There was no doubt in Sally's mind that Sheila Kersey had left willingly—or at least silently—with whomever had killed her boyfriend in order to hide the fact that her little girl was just upstairs.

When the woman from Social Services finally arrived, Lestrade did nothing to extend his chat with Emma. He rose gracefully from the tiny chair, despite audibly creaking knees, and extended a hand to the girl with a courtly half-bow.

"Thank you so much, Miss Emma, for your hospitality," he told her. "I really don't know when I've spent a more enjoyable evening."

Emma placed her hand in his and graciously inclined her head. "Pray don't mention it, Detective Inspector. The pleasure was entirely mine."

Lestrade pressed the girl's tiny hand within his own—Sally was torn between relief and disappointment that he didn't kiss it—and replied, "I hope that we may do this again very soon." At that, Emma ruined the Jane Austen reenactment by grinning and nodding enthusiastically. She then pivoted on her heel and took the hand of the matronly woman from Social Services without hesitation.

Not her first time in the county's care, Sally realized.

After the two left—by the back stairs in order to spare the child a view of the fairly bloody crime scene—Sally gave her boss a sidelong look. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, you are a _shocking_ flirt!"

The teasing caught Lestrade by surprise, arresting the habitual expression of worry and wear that was returning to his face now that the child was gone. Then he favored her with a raffish grin. Sally experienced a tiny sense of victory at having forestalled, however briefly, her boss's usual crime scene bleakness.

Still smiling slightly, Lestrade looked down at the tea table and set. "I'm gonna go down and see what the lads have so far. Can you find someone to pack this lot up?" He made a circular gesture, encompassing the chairs, table, cups, saucers, and plates. "I reckon we can ship it to Emma, you know, when she gets herself settled."

He glanced up and met her eyes, and Sally wondered if he thought she was going to object. It hurt slightly, that he might think she cared more about proper procedure than making sure a kid got to keep her tea set.

"I'll take care of it, boss," she assured him, and the gratitude in his face was another small victory. He smiled at her—_not_ that wretched forced smile that he put on when things weren't right—and headed for the stairs.

Sally didn't bother to find someone to pack up the tea set. She did it herself.


End file.
